


Willed

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s spread out, guileless, against the bed, and for once, he has nothing to say. (drabble)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Willed

He’s spread out, guileless, against the bed, and for once, he has nothing to say.

Castiel hovers above him; a hand planted on either side of Dean’s chest, his wide, blue, blue eyes on Dean’s, his mouth slightly open, _human_ and _lost,_ and _everything_ is blue, and blue, and _blue_. His great wings are spread out in the room, the four walls too small to encompass them so they press, slightly bent, against the ceiling, fluttering when Castiel breathes, a great _whumf_ noise, displacing air; but he’s hardly breathing now, he is still, pale, motionless and naked, more a vessel than Dean has ever seen him before. He is paused, his arms taut as bows as he holds himself up, knees either side of Dean’s hips, but gentle. Not pressing, not moving. Still as stone, and yet alive, here he is carved out of marble or ivory, white and large above him, an endless plane of faulted, dented flesh. Beautiful. _Strange_.

There’s a peace to be found here, if Dean could just reach a hand out and take it, but he can’t. Not yet.

Dean’s hands are empty but he, himself is full, of something; faith or grace, Castiel might guess, but that’s not it. Not at all. He is something else in this room, though the walls are faded, though it smells like bad plumbing and damp. He’s not a lost boy, a broken thing, a weary lump of skin; he’s _more, greater, righteous,_ even pinned under Castiel like a damned fool, naked as the day he was born, all scars and ink and desperation, still.

 The sensation is on the tip of something, the crest of a wave that threatens to come crashing over them, and _everything_ is paused, is waiting. Cas is waiting, too, re-named, new-hewn, his skin entirely his, through luck or punishment or favour, none of them can tell; the second stretches endlessly until Castiel tips, crashes over, and he is waves of human wanting, of mortal loss. His wings fan out and then curl around, making the room dark, enclosing them both, their warm weight enfolding him, pressing them closer together.

Castiel brings his face close and he doesn’t look so human anymore; looks huge, all-encompassing, giant and incredible and _old;_ he leans closer, eyes still wide open but now dropping closed, and the breath he breathes across Dean’s lips before diving in speaks of _eternities_.  

 


End file.
